


two percent chances

by screamlet



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, POV Alternating, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: “I was reading a thing I shouldn’t be reading and it said we have a two percent chance of winning the cup.”“Oh. Is that all?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \+ i started writing this the evening of R1G3, based on a table posted by some stats guy, doesn't matter which one  
> \+ set in a world where there's no homophobia (in professional sports/anywhere), but Serious Sports Dudes can still be assholes about players being people in any discernible way  
> \+ no, i DON'T know why i picked [edge of seventeen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dn8-4tjPxD8) as the playoffs hype song, but shut up and don't look at me! get hyped!

This was one thing Gabe could appreciate about getting older: other people’s opinions of him could get absolutely and completely fucked.

“What are you laughing at?” Tyson asked. “You’re doing that really short, dry laugh like your dad before he tells me I’m wrong about something.”

“I mean, it _is_ wrong!” Gabe said. “Okay, I know looking at stats on the internet is bad—”

“Oh, this is gonna be good. Tell me more, drag me into the shame spiral, I love our trips there.”

Gabe sighed and leaned back in the passenger seat. He was tempted to pull the handle and drop his seat back as far as it could go for dramatic effect, but all they needed this post-season was for him to startle Tyson into a car accident and get them both killed. It was the playoffs; anything could happen.

“I was reading a thing I shouldn’t be reading and it said we have a two percent chance of winning the cup.”

“Oh. Is that all?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t get it,” Tyson said.

“It’s funny!”

“I guess? Does someone have worse odds?”

“Yeah, there’s two teams below us.”

“Okay. Huh.”

Gabe looked at Tyson, who had his eyes fixed on the road and whose thumbs were tapping on the steering wheel like they always did.

“What are you thinking?”

“I dunno,” Tyson said. “You’re right, it’s pretty funny. Like, you could have looked at our odds and just said _lol no_ , which lots of people have said! _Lots_ of people.”

“You said you wouldn’t look at twitter,” Gabe said.

“You first!” Tyson glanced over, smirking with a dimple in full force, then focused on the road again. “Someone could have just said we sucked and there was no chance we’d ever do the thing, right? Instead they went through all this math and shit to give us an exact number of how badly we’re going to not do the thing.”

“Right?” Gabe said. “It’s not even how bad we are, it’s like the odds of us overcoming our overwhelming shittiness to win the cup. And it’s so specific! Two percent!”

“Well, thanks for the food for thought. At least you got Tina Turner out of my head,” Tyson said. “Ask EJ if he got us coffee or if I have to stop at the drive-thru.”

“Just go to the drive-thru, EJ never gets my coffee right.”

“He’s a cranky old creature of habit, it’s gonna take him at least three years before he accepts Starbucks does cold brew. Sorry, babe.”

“Why can’t I get away with calling you _babe_? Why does it sound so ridiculous when I do it?”

“Because you’re not inherently ridiculous,” Tyson said. “This is my default setting. Beep beep I’m gay.”

*

Practices during the playoffs were a strange combination of “keep everything exactly the same so we can carry our regular season success with us” and “this is a new thing someone up the chain read about and why not use it on athletes, y’know?”

It was the day before Game 3 and they had Improv for Athletes scheduled after lunch.

“Oh my god,” Tyson said as he stared at the schedule on the whiteboard. “Z, is there at least a two percent chance you just fucking kill me during practice and I don’t have to watch you assholes do improv?”

“Why only two percent?” Z asked. “I’ll kill you for free.”

“Just make it _look_ like manslaughter so you can play tomorrow. Promise me, okay?”

Z sighed deeply. “Nate might be sad. He can’t play when he’s sad. Or angry. Or sick. Or healthy. Or—”

“God, shut up already, it’s not enough I have to look at your face all spring, too,” Nate said with a playful little headlock to match.

Z pushed him off and almost kicked Nate’s ass before he, thankfully, remembered he had one of his skates on already and bisecting their top scorer was maybe not a great idea that morning.

Tyson released the long, despairing, echoing sigh of someone who was going to be forced into improv against his will. He walked back to his stall to finish changing, but looked up when Kerf threw a pair of socks at his face.

“Why two percent?” Kerf asked.

“What?”

“You said _is there a two percent chance_ —”

Tyson laughed. “Yeah, something Gabe read this morning when he broke his media blackout after like, fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t tell them,” Gabe said across the room.

“Now you have to,” Josty said.

“What if it ruins your game?” Gabe asked.

Josty tilted his head and then looked to Tyson for guidance. He didn’t find it.

“Gabe,” Tyson began. “I’m telling you this because you’re my friend and my partner and I love you, okay?”

“9:47 AM. I’ll pay the fine,” Gabe said, which was how he said _I love you, too_.

“No one in this room is here because they’re great at retaining facts, critical thinking, or any kind of productive, thoughtful analysis. I promise you. I didn’t even know that I knew any of those phrases out of a _move puck good_ context. I didn’t think I knew the word _context_ , either. Anyway, I’m gonna tell them because nothing matters.”

“It’s true,” Kerf said. “I already forgot what I asked about, so don’t worry.”

“No, I’m gonna tell you because it’s funny,” Tyson said. “So! Gabe clicked on a stats article this morning and they put our odds of winning the cup at a hefty, respectable, nice round number of two. Two percent.”

Tyson grabbed his pads and pulled them on over his head, but he stopped before adjusting them. The room was silent, the worst sound in the universe. He looked around and saw _way_ too many thoughtful faces, then looked at Gabe, who was about to bore a hole into his skull.

“I told you,” Gabe said.

“No, come on! It’s funny! It’s fun!”

“They’re not wrong,” Carl said.

“Wait, what?” Tyson asked.

Carl shrugged and kept getting dressed. “Two percent sounds about right. We have inconsistent scoring—I know I’m part of it. And there’s lots of other things, like a defenseman who talks a lot of shit instead of getting out on the ice early for practice, but scoring’s the big one, yeah? Two percent chance we play good enough to keep going. Sounds right.”

Yeah, that kinda took the wind out of Tyson’s sails. Usually he loved when Gabe was right because Gabe had things like “foresight” and “a moral compass,” but this kinda sucked. He glanced over at Gabe; Tyson didn’t expect him to also look a little crushed.

Then, Gabe smiled.

“I mean,” Gabe said. “It’s a whole _two percent_. It’s not completely totally nailed down one hundred percent we’re going to fail—no, there’s a _two percent_ chance we make it to the end! Tys, didn’t you read a thing about how mice can squeeze through holes the size of dimes or something?”

Next to Tyson, EJ nodded thoughtfully. “Comparing us to vermin who have a chance of sneaking into the cup is an excellent captain move and I full-on love it.”

Gabe flipped him off. “You know that’s what they’re thinking! Do we have a chance? They don’t think we do but they can’t say that, so they’ll give us two percent of a chance. That’s _anything_.”

Tyson grinned at Gabe. “You could fuck a lot of people up with two percent of something. Like poison!”

“Guys, are we the mice or the exterminators?” Colin asked. “You get harder to understand the longer you date.”

“All right, come on, boys!” Gabe yelled. “Two percent effort out there! That was a 0.6% pep talk and I’ve gotta do better! We’ve all gotta do better!”

Mikko went in for a chest bump, but tripped over someone’s shin guard and fell on his face. It was gonna be a good day.

*

Practice was practice, improv was terrible, but the rest of the day was theirs. Gabe wanted to get home, cuddle with Zoey, cuddle with Tyson _and_ Zoey, and not think about the game tomorrow night. Tyson would probably throw a few wrinkles in there—walk five houses down to have drinks with Nate? Sit in their living room and have drinks with Nate? Talk through a movie Gabe had never seen before? Sex? Slow, luxurious fucking that left Tyson quiet, useless, and clingy, the sounds dragged out of his throat burned into Gabe’s brain, a movie he could play on loop instead of thinking about The Game?

“What are you thinking about?”

Gabe realized he was standing in the foyer, holding Zoey’s leash, both Tyson and Zoey staring at him, amused and confused (respectively).

“Just zoned out,” Gabe said.

“You’re gonna fuck me when you get back, aren’t you.”

“Oh my god, I have to take a _walk_. I have to walk Zoey, our _dog_.”

“We can fuck and then go to the supermarket.”

“Sure. Sounds amazing. Add it to the to-do list.”

Tyson smiled brightly. “I will, and you’re gonna see it in the supermarket and do that thing where you blush and look all feverish like you’re dying.”

“I know, I’ll never have your natural glow, this is my burden.”

Tyson, the person he loved to share his ridiculous life with, leaned up to kiss him. His hands rested on Gabe’s hips, fingers in his waistband, seeking out a touch of his bare skin until Gabe squirmed and pulled away.

“Okay, okay, a quick walk,” Gabe said as he leaned in to kiss Tyson again. “Like, the quickest.”

Sex and the supermarket later, the two of them worked around each other in the kitchen to piece together some kind of dinner, a haphazard one since they had basically swept their faves into the shopping cart and run with it instead of “planning” a “meal.”

“You know, we’ve been saying it wrong all day,” Tyson said. “It’s not a two percent effort, it’s a two percent success rate.”

“You’re too pretty to know the phrase success rate.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re right, though,” Gabe said. “That’s interesting.”

“Right? Like. Think about what you would do if you had a two percent success rate.”

“Tys, it was a joke, it’s basically nothing—“

“Nope, it’s two percent,” Tyson said. “You’re so sure you’re going to fail, but does that mean don’t try? There’s still a chance! There’s a very real chance, _two percent_ of a chance that you could fuck something up so good. So what would you do?”

Gabe thought about it while watching a giant pan of onions caramelize. It felt weird and alien to step out of hockey—not _away_ from hockey, which they had to do in these precious hours outside the rink, but _out_ of hockey and _into_ his skin, _into_ the person Gabe sensed he was without hockey.

“I think I’d cook more,” Gabe said. He wondered why his voice was quiet as he said it, but he shook it off.

“Oh hell yes _Gabriel_ , elevate our chicken and pasta dinners.”

“I’m serious,” Gabe laughed.

Tyson slowly pressed up against his back. He could feel the way Tyson turned his head so he could rest his cheek against Gabe’s back, a line of warmth between them. Gabe leaned into it and reached for one of Tyson’s hands so he could kiss his palm.

“Wait, you got into the cookies,” Gabe said. “I want one! Those soft ones never last long around here.”

“Shut up and tell me about cooking.”

“Pass the bag of cookies and I’ll think about it.”

“I only took one! Cookie narc.”

“You spoiled your dinner.”

“It’s an _appetizer_.”

Gabe leaned back to snatch the bag of cookies out of Tyson’s reach, moving them to the top shelf in their cabinets to hide them there.

“You’re such a dick. I can’t believe you used my own cabinets against me.”

Gabe grabbed Tyson, an arm wrapped around his waist, and kissed him hard before he let him go. Tyson looked a little dazed, then a little offended that he had been released from Gabe’s grasp. He reached for Gabe’s hand and put it directly on his ass, pulling Gabe’s arm around himself closer until they were both in real danger of literally catching fire.

“We never have _any_ fun,” Tyson laughed as Gabe pulled away to move the onions around a little. “Tell me more about cooking. I didn’t know this scintillating stand-and-stare was something you needed more of in your life.”

“The stand-and-stare is a patented Landeskog technique, didn’t you know that?” Gabe shot Tyson a little grin, then turned back to the onions. “Mom’s a chef, right? Not one of your Food Network icons, but a professional chef. Lots of times she didn’t want to cook because she did that all day, and the rest of us got our chance to cook and she let us. But.”

“But…?”

Gabe pushed the onions around some more. “But she’s a chef. So it was a lot of _oh this is beautiful, honey, but this not nearly enough seasoning. You used my $400 pot to make Kraft mac and cheese?_ ”

“You tell me what the fuck Kraft mac and cheese is called in Swedish and I will suck your dick right now,” Tyson said.

“It’s called Kraft mac and cheese, you shithead! We have imports! There’s an American section in every store!”

“Oh, right, I forgot about that.” Tyson laughed and then came close to Gabe again, nudging his side until Gabe smiled, too.

“Anyway. It wasn’t just the _add more salt_ thing, but—she’s always gonna make something perfect so why bother, right?”

“I get that,” Tyson said. “But now you’re gonna bother, right? Because there’s a 2% chance that the next meal you make is gonna be the best thing I ever put in my mouth.”

Gabe laughed and reached for his phone, the recipe they were trying to follow buried by five random google searches since they started cooking.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Tyson asked.

“Two percent success rate,” Gabe said. “What would you do if there was a whole _two percent_ chance that you could blow it the hell away. Don’t say a blowjob, I’m _way_ easier than that.”

“Well, as long as you know that.”

Tyson left Gabe’s side and wandered back to the kitchen island, collecting the things he had half-heartedly prepped. Tyson always said they should sign up for one of those box things, except it still sounded like way too much effort and not enough calories for their monster metabolisms.

“Tys?”

“I dunno, actually,” Tyson said. “Let me think about it. You know, since I’m such a stud as-is.”

“God, how could I forget that time you won the cup on your own with one hand tied behind your back?”

“Seriously, Gabe, how could you.” Tyson watched Gabe throw more things together and when Gabe was done, he leaned against Gabe’s side until Gabe wrapped him up close. At this rate they would never eat, because they were young and stupid and in love.

“Two percent chance we actually eat this without quitting to order a pizza,” Gabe said.

“Stop reading my mind! Fuck! It’s so weird when you do that!”

*

Tyson knew exactly what he would do with his two percent success rate: he’d ask Gabe to marry him.

It wasn’t that Gabe would turn him down, because they had talked about it and Gabe wouldn’t, and Tyson wouldn’t turn down Gabe either. The problem wasn’t with the asking, but with the rest of it.

Tyson could turn around right there in bed, wake Gabe up, and ask Gabe to marry him. Gabe would look incredibly rumpled and cranky at being woken up, but then the words would sink in and Gabe would turn all soft, warm, and golden, and he would cup Tyson’s face and kiss him so gently, and say yes, and it would be perfect.

Then Gabe would lie down again and pull Tyson with him. He’d put Tyson in a gentle loving headlock until they both passed out because being husbands with Gabe Landeskog meant getting a full eight hours of sleep every night during the season and Tyson liked sleep too much to argue with that.

Tyson didn’t want to stop there. Proposing was the first round. He wanted a _wedding_.

He wanted to ask Gabe to marry him and hear that perfect soft _yes_.

He wanted to marry Gabe on a beach somewhere. Both of them would be dressed in formal shorts and the tackiest Hawaiian shirts they could find, barefoot in the sand like a couple of disgusting cliches. They wouldn’t even button their shirts as they held hands in front of the officiant and recited their vows inspired by some wine mom driftwood signs that Tyson’s mother had bought for their living room unironically.

Once they were married, they would laugh at each other and kiss. Gabe would wipe away one perfect tear from his own cheek, and then reach over to Tyson and hold his face so gently as he wiped _two_ perfect tears from Tyson’s cheeks, and then he would lean in and kiss Tyson again. Their friends and family would scream their drunk asses off. Nate and EJ would hand them each a frozen margarita and Tyson and Gabe would walk down the makeshift aisle and spend the night next to a bonfire with the most important people in their lives, eating food off sticks and letting true love and tequila work its magic.

Tyson would put the whole thing on their public instagrams. He’d go live as Gabe’s sister Bea burped a best person speech and laughed in her brother’s face. He’d get EJ to take a sickeningly romantic photo of him and Gabe by the bonfire—Gabe pulling Tyson into his lap and Tyson reaching back to kiss Gabe, all of them blurry and out of focus except for their two left hands, their two shining rings.

And since Tyson was free to do anything he wanted in this perfect world, he would take a picture of Gabe jumping in front of their new house, bigger so that more of their loser friends could crash with them in the off season and with a bigger yard so they could get two more dogs and Zoey could have friends. They would share a cup day and take it with them on their honeymoon, watching the sunset on another beach with the cup between them, the two of them holding hands. Neither of them would feel guilty about not taking it to their hometowns. Gabe was from Stockholm; he was probably the only person there who hadn’t won a Stanley Cup yet.

(That was a joke too mean for Tyson to ever make to Gabe’s face.)

If only the captain dating a teammate wasn’t already “a distraction” every time they lost more than two games, never mind distracting the captain with _marriage_. If only the very dream of Tyson’s depraved shirtless beach wedding wasn’t a disgrace to queer people struggling for respectability. If only Tyson wasn’t already such a laughable excuse for a Man’s Man that drinking a margarita on main would confirm everything people thought they knew about him. If only his place in this world wasn’t conditional on meeting other people’s specifications.

If Tyson thought there was even a two percent chance that he could get all of that, everything he wanted with the only person he wanted, that’s what he would do.

He sighed to himself and tried to remember how to fall asleep, since he had only gone to sleep every night for 27 years and it was easy to forget stuff like that.

“Hey,” Gabe’s voice said behind him, just above a whisper. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just—trying to get comfortable.”

They had been together long enough that they didn’t have to prove How in Love They Were by pretending they were going to cuddle the entire night without any of their limbs falling asleep and fucking them up in the morning.

Still, Gabe moved closer and rested a heavy arm across Tyson’s chest.

Tyson stilled. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, Gabe dozing off again just a few inches away. He sighed to himself, then edged a little closer to Gabe, pulling the sheets up, too. He turned his head so he was resting on the corner of Gabe’s pillow.

“Love you,” Tyson whispered.

“Love you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What happened to that guy who drives you everywhere, especially to practice where everyone can see you and appreciate him?” Nate asked on Monday morning.

“He went to pick up our new baby,” Tyson said.

Nate slammed on the brakes and Tyson choked on his seatbelt.

“THIS IS HOW YOU TELL ME YOU’RE ADOPTING?”

“I MEANT THE NEW KID, NATHAN!!! For the team? The _hockey team_?”

Nate closed his eyes and willed his heart to stop screaming, then clicked his seatbelt. “I’m too anxious to drive, you gotta do it.”

“Let’s just call a Lyft, I’m lazy.”

“You can’t talk shit in a Lyft.”

“I can’t talk shit in a car with you either, apparently, because you think I’d actually _adopt a child_ without telling you! What the _fuck_?”

“Listen, I don’t know!”

“You should know!”

The two of them sat in the car, in Tyson’s driveway, for close to five entire minutes, neither of them willing to apologize or call a car or start driving or do anything but sit there and stew.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Tyson asked. “And that when we even start _thinking_ of all that, like, you’ll get an engraved invitation. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Nate said. “Sorry I freaked out and choked you with the seatbelt.”

“It’s okay, that means it’s working.”

They were quiet for another long moment, so Tyson nudged Nate.

“Want me to drive?”

“Yeah, please.”

So Tyson and Nate got out of Nate’s car and switched seats. Tyson’s car was still extremely visible in the driveway, but this was more economic or something.

“Also, I drive myself around _a lot_ ,” Tyson said. “Just yesterday, I drove me and Gabe to practice so he could laugh at stuff on his phone and I had to pay attention to the road. That’s devotion, Nate.”

Nate nodded, then he asked, “Do you wanna stop for breakfast or just eat at the rink?”

“I stayed up late last night, I just wanna go to the rink and put on my stupid pads and not think about anything until tonight.”

“‘kay.”

“Unless you want hashbrowns. Do you want me to stop for hashbrowns?”

“I wouldn’t say no to hashbrowns.”

“All right, hashbrowns it is.”

Stopping for hashbrowns was a great idea because it meant Nate and Tyson missed the wave of reporters clogging up the complex waiting to talk to the new kid.

“Did you meet him yet?” Nate asked as they entered the room.

“Gabe said I’m a bad influence and have to be introduced in a controlled environment.”

“And there they are,” Gabe said, standing next to a guy who (allegedly) was Sam’s age, but still had that look on him of _I’m a dumb college kid_ , which: he was. “This is Nate and this is Tyson.”

“Great to meet you,” the new kid said as he eagerly shook Nate’s hand and made lots of eye contact.

Tyson didn’t bother waiting for a handshake. Instead, he walked around Cale and pointed at the garment bag hanging at the back of his stall. “Did Gabe take you _suit shopping_?”

“He needed a new suit!” Gabe said. “His sleeves were too long and his shirts weren’t even fitted.”

“Well god for _bid_.”

Gabe made a face, and then with one deceptively quick move he had Tyson wrapped up in his arms and facing Cale.

“Tyson, this is Cale. Cale, this is Tyson.”

“This is Tyson,” Tyson agreed. “It’s great to meet you. I know Gabe’s your captain and everything—”

“I’m your captain, too,” Gabe said in a low voice.

“Gabe, not in front of the baby,” Tyson said. “Anyway, Gabe’s your captain, but don’t let him bully you into dressing well. You’re only 20. Embrace the dirtbag as long as you can because once that self-respect starts creeping in, you’ll wake your partner up early to pick up rookies at their hotel and buy them nice breakfasts and I had to walk the dog _alone_ and everyone at the dog park asked about you, Gabe.”

“They’re your friends, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m scared that when people notice you’re not there, they'll think you’ve left me and I’m just waiting to be alone again so I can have a good cry.”

“Hey, quick question,” Nate said. “Can you like. Let Cale get dressed. For practice. Tys, can you get dressed for practice?”

“Gabe’s been here longer and he’s not dressed.”

“You’re making me want to drink and it’s not even ten.”

“Nate, you should really hydrate,” Gabe added. “I’m getting Cale a water, do you want a water, too? Want me to fill up your bottle like I did when you were a rookie?”

“Cale, a spot just opened for a first line center, because I’m throwing myself into traffic,” Nate said. “Have fun, enjoy the team, hockey’s for everyone, it was nice knowing you.”

*

Contrary to popular belief, Sidney Crosby wasn’t so superstitious that he only made off-season plans when the off-season had started. He made very vague, flexible plans, but they were still plans. To Nate? This still felt a little premature.

“Come on, don’t talk like that. You guys can come back from this,” Nate had told Sid on the phone Sunday night.

“We can, but we won’t,” Sid said.

“The fuck does that mean? You’re Sidney Crosby. You’re—”

“It’s not happening. I know it’s not happening..”

“No shit, but that’s never stopped anyone before. Every year 30 teams know they’re not gonna win the cup at the end of it, but we all still play.”

“You know what I mean. I just feel it, you know? That extra weight that’s hanging off you and whispering, _you’re a loser_.”

“No, I don’t know, and if you’re making $9 million a year and you’re hearing that voice, you probably need some help.”

“I don’t want to fight, okay? But listen. What if I come out to Denver?”

“...what?”

“What?”

“You wanna come to Denver?”

“I’ve been to Denver!”

“Not by yourself. Not—” _For me_. “Without the team.”

“I mean, true, but I can come now. I’ll fly out, we’ll hang out for a few days until you’re done, then we—”

“Hang on. Hang the fuck on. We’ll what?”

“...oh. Oh, I heard what I said. Yeah, sorry, man, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t mean that thing that came out of your mouth so fucking casually?”

“I said I was sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“Didn't mean it, or didn’t mean to say it?”

“Nate. Don’t be like this.”

“What, a loser who’s gonna get swept in the first round?” He could hear Sid doing that dramatic exhale through his nose, the one that made him look like an angry cow.

“You’re really, really good, okay?” Sid said. “But you can’t win a cup with just one guy. I mean, jesus, Nate, it was the worst luck in the world you got drafted to the Avs. Do you really think—”

“I’m blocking your number until July. Go fuck yourself.”

*

For years, Nate’s game day ritual included having a post-practice pre-dinner meal with Tyson (and later Gabe), then taking a nap in Tyson’s (and later Gabe’s) guest room. If they were playing at home and he slept in his own bed before a game, he’d get too cozy and waking up from a nap there was always hell.

They took turns cooking, even if it was Gabe and Tyson’s kitchen; today Gabe brought out a lunch that looked just a tiny bit fancier than his usual.

“Looks amazing,” Nate said appreciatively as he helped himself. He passed the serving utensils to Tyson and then, as he lifted his fork to taste, he said, “Hey, did I tell you guys what Sid said?”

He told Gabe and Tyson, stabbing at pasta as he spoke, then let it all fall off his fork as he finished. He stared at it for another moment, then stabbed a few farfalle again and crammed them into his mouth.

Tyson groaned. “Fuck him. God, he can be such an asshole.”

“He’s your _best friend_ ,” Gabe said.

"Yeah, what the _fuck_ , Nate. I’ll punch out his dentures next time I see him.”

“Yeah,” Nate said.

Gabe leaned over a put a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “You know it’s a complete lie, right?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Nate said. “It’s not true, but it’s still something my best friend thought about me. So. That’s awesome. Totally won’t haunt me or anything.”

Tyson raised his eyebrows at Nate. “Of course it won’t. We’re gonna nap, take our dogs on a nice walk, and get dressed. Gabe’s gonna pick up the new kid and ride over with him, and you’ll ride with me, and we’re gonna play some hockey.”

“Just gonna play some hockey,” Nate repeated. “And, knowing you, probably listen to “Edge of Seventeen” like ten times before warmups.”

“Tell me Stevie doesn’t put you in the zone.”

Nate nodded. He glanced at Gabe, who had been eating steadily and watching the conversation bounce between Nate and Tyson. Nate envied his chill—not that Gabe _was_ chill more than 35% of the time in any given week, but he could pass for it until those moments when the chill ran out and his face turned Viking Murder Red.

“We gonna play some hockey?” Nate asked him.

Gabe nodded and took a sip of water. He smiled at Nate, and then he said to Tyson, “I just don’t know how a guy can say he loves someone and he’s their best friend, and then say something like that. Maybe I grab Cale and drive to the airport and we take a quick little captain’s trip to kick the shit out of someone. Would anyone mind?”

“Uh, yes, several people,” Nate said.

“Starting with the two dozen reporters in the room who need to write deeply contemplative profiles of a 20-year-old who you had to take to get his suit tailored, _Gabe_.”

“I just don’t get how people can be like that!”

Tyson made a face. “They have assholes in Sweden, I’ve met your friends from school. Sorry, I’ve met the guys who made moving to Ontario at 16 sound like a way better option than another minute in Sweden. You definitely know how people can be like that.”

“I meant I don’t get how people can be like that _to Nate_.”

“That’s a good point,” Tyson said. “Yeah, I’ll join you on your revenge spree. After the series, though. We’ll see how it all shakes out and maybe we’ll have some time for a revenge spree. Cale can absolutely come.”

“EJ will get so mad if we take the baby and not him,” Nate said.

“I assumed EJ was coming on the revenge spree, I just figured he would ride there with Sam on a pair of beautiful stallions and show up on the sunset of the third day or something,” Tyson said. “Not that I’ve put a lot of thought into this in the past minute.”

Nate glanced at Gabe again, because Gabe and Tyson had been together for years and Nate never felt like a third wheel with them. He figured that was because maybe sometimes Gabe felt third-wheeled in his own house over his own lunch with his co-worker/friend and his own partner? But Gabe was sort of half-smiling, lightly tapping his fingers on the table, as his eyes flicked between Nate and Tyson.

“What?” Nate asked.

“Can I set you up with Keith now?” Gabe asked. “The guy from the dog park who has that beautiful black lab mix?”

“Chad Michael Furry is single?” Tyson asked. “Since when! _Gabriel_! Stop keeping juicy secrets from me about our queer dog park friends!”

“He’s always been single, you’ve just always been taken so you didn’t listen,” Gabe said. “You’re an awful wingman for Nate.”

Tyson was about to protest until he saw Nate’s face, which apparently conveyed _You’re the worst_ with excellent precision.

“Keith is hot and awesome,” Tyson said. “Ooh, what if we double date?”

Nate shot Gabe a look. “Speaking of introducing hazardous influences in a controlled environment.”

Gabe laughed, way too much for Tyson’s liking judging by his expression, but Nate watched him pick up his phone and snap a picture of Gabe losing it.

“Just _so glad_ you two have your little in-jokes, too, it’s so great,” Tyson said. “I’m gonna put all this shit away while you think of more people to set up with Nate. Oh! Armando has that super hot cousin who came to their baby’s birthday, Carmela? Oh my god, Nate, Carmela is like, straight up _beautiful_. She’s a nurse practitioner in one of the medical complexes around here and she’s so _funny_.”

Gabe raised his eyebrows at Tyson, then stood up. “No, don’t you worry, I’ll take care of these before I get too jealous of Carmela.”

Tyson protested, but then he took Gabe’s seat at the table and pulled it closer to Nate. “He’s my partner, you’re my person,” Tyson said. “He talks a big game, but I will literally murder someone for you. Gabe can drive.”

“Your commitment to jail time is enough to know you care,” Nate said. “Hurting him doesn’t make me hurt less, you know?”

“Jesus Christ, that’s so mature,” Tyson sighed.

“Does Gabe really want me to date someone?” Nate asked. “Like, is it ‘cause I—”

“No, it’s not,” Tyson said. “Gabe is one of those big time introverts who thinks if you start dating someone _now_ , in five years he’ll get over being shy around them and he can call them his friend. We’ve known Keith for like, three years, so maybe in another three Gabe will ask him _independent of me_ to come over and have a beer, but dating you is a fast track to Gabe, get it?”

Nate laughed and rubbed his hand down his face. “I don’t get you two.”

“You think I do?”

Nate sat back in his seat, looking at Tyson across their little slice of the table. Tyson smiled at him and reached out, wrapping his hand around Nate’s wrist. He changed his mind and linked his fingers with Nate, looking thoughtful for once. Nate stared at their hands, then nodded and clutched Tyson’s hand firmly.

“You think we’ve got at least a two percent chance of destroying Calgary tonight?” Nate asked.

“I think we can muster like, five or six at least.”

*

They won Game 3.

Nate hadn’t felt right on his feet the first two games. He was working hard those two games, leading the guys in shots on goal, wrecking himself trying to find a way into the net, but things just hadn’t clicked.

Now they clicked. Three-point night clicked. They all fucking _clicked_. Josty stomped back into the room and screamed, “Just like the white winged _daahhhhhhvvvvvvvvve_ EJ CATCH ME,” totally trusting that EJ would catch him before he hit the floor teeth-first.

Of course, EJ caught him easily and laughed. Josty scrambled back up on his feet before the coaches could come in and see them having too much fun, but he kept mangling the lyrics as Tyson good naturedly yelled at him. EJ caught Nate’s eye and winked at him, then started pulling off his jersey and pads.

“Nate, I think you’ve got some people waiting for you,” Tyson called out, because Nate was still standing by the door of the room, a little lost in that moment. It was one of those moments when everything was exactly as it should be and the next thing Nate did could break the spell.

Nate took a step, but EJ was there with a hand on his arm. Nate looked down, his eyes on EJ’s hand cupping his elbow, a little smile creeping up as EJ whispered to him.

“You’ll let me give you a ride home, yeah?”

Nate nodded and muttered a quick, “Sure, man.” EJ clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared again, leaving Nate to take the next step and the one after.

*

Nate liked routines—not as much as some people did, but enough that his post-game routine was pretty set: get home, play with the dog, take the dog on a walk, then throw himself into bed and fall asleep immediately. It was pretty solid and allowed for leeway here and there, like if the boys wanted to go out or something.

Then this season happened, with all their insanely long road trips, and Nate learned how good it felt to straddle EJ’s lap in a king-sized hotel bed and tongue-fuck one of his best friends.

The season continued, the road trips calmed down, and Nate learned EJ had vastly improved his flexibility. Allegedly he did it to cut down on his injuries, but now Nate could also fuck EJ with one of his legs over Nate’s shoulder.

Now the season was over, they had one more game before they flew to Calgary again, and EJ was kneeling in his own living room, scratching Cox’s belly while Nate looked on and tried to identify any of the emotions inside him. Amused? For sure. Annoyed? _Yeah_ , because EJ had kissed him as he dropped Nate off down the street, hard and fast and like he wanted to start something as he rubbed his palm over Nate’s crotch, before he shoved him out the door and told him to hurry back for the night.

“I thought there was some kind of hurry, bud,” Nate said.

“Seeing my bestest buddy in the whole world,” EJ baby-talked to the dog, who _loved it_. “You got somewhere to be?”

“On my back.”

EJ laughed.

Warm? Was that an emotion? He wasn’t even annoyed, honestly; watching EJ lavish attention on his dog and make his dog happy was like, the third best everyday occurrence in Nate’s life. Nate loved his dog and he loved his friends and his friends loved his dog because Nate was pretty good at surrounding himself with good people. He would always be grateful for that.

Cox rolled over onto his side and escaped EJ to look for the water and food bowls EJ kept for him in the kitchen.

“What’s up?” EJ stood up from kneeling and loomed over Nate with his hands on his hips.

“What? I was watching you.”

EJ waggled his eyebrows and his tongue stuck out through the gap in his teeth. “Yeah? Were you?”

“Come on,” Nate said. “I had three points.”

“Asshole, I had two.”

They slipped by Cox enjoying his late night snack in the kitchen, EJ leading Nate towards the master bedroom with his fingers twisted up in the hem of Nate’s shirt. EJ closed the door behind them and crowded Nate in, Nate’s thighs already open and waiting for EJ to press in close. Fucking EJ was like fucking a vampire. EJ cast a shadow over Nate and his long fingers ghosted along Nate’s skin. His muscles flexed under Nate’s hands like he was another heated kiss away from throwing Nate into bed and fucking him into the mattress.

“Get in the shower,” EJ said. “You still smell like a gym bag.”

“Fuck me first. We’re just gonna get filthy again. It’s such a waste of water. I thought you cared about the environment.”

EJ rolled his eyes, but he did pick Nate up and carry him over to the bed, Nate’s legs wrapped around EJ’s waist for the few blissful seconds it lasted. No one could hold Nate like that, make him feel lightheaded and like he’d never fall.

It felt even better when EJ laid him out and carefully took Nate’s clothes off, throwing each piece onto the floor. EJ stood over him and stared, almost like he couldn’t _stop_ staring until Nate wrapped his fingers around his dick and began to stroke himself slowly. Still, EJ didn’t rush in getting his clothes off, his eyes lingering on Nate’s as he dropped his clothes on the floor. There were nightstands on either side of the bed, a small lamp on each one giving off a golden glow that did EJ too many favors, more than he needed when he already looked the way he did.

“You look so good in this light,” Nate said.

“Fluorescent lighting is a conspiracy, especially when your stall’s right across from mine.”

“Yeah?”

EJ leaned over him as Nate opened his legs wider. Nate moved his hand from his dick, but EJ moved it right back, their two hands working Nate while EJ looked him over again. It made Nate flex under EJ, trying to show off for him, maybe help him make up his mind about what he wanted to do to Nate. Nate wanted—

“Bite me right here,” Nate said, his free hand brushing against his neck.

“You sure? Might get some questions."

"Then fuck me so well that I don't care."

They laughed at each other and then EJ’s teeth pressed against the side of Nate’s neck, EJ’s hand tightening around Nate’s dick at the same time. EJ was so fucking good at this, sucking his soul out with just hard, sucking kisses that left marks for days. His teeth against Nate’s skin was an insane sense memory that Nate could bring back so vividly when they didn’t have time for this and Nate had to jerk off alone.

There was the weight of EJ’s body on him, _fuck_ , Nate loved that. Nate freed his hands so he could grasp at EJ’s back, his shoulder blades jutting out sharp and beautiful for Nate to clutch as EJ destroyed him. He held on and rolled his hips against EJ’s, both of them shuddering as their cocks rubbed wet against each other. Nate thought he wanted to get fucked as soon as possible, but then EJ dragged his teeth down to Nate’s collarbone and then to Nate’s nipples. Now Nate just wanted to grind their hips together until they died.

“I’m close, just touch me,” Nate gasped. “Fuck, why are you _like this_.”

EJ pushed Nate’s thighs wider and reached between them to bring Nate off, their dicks in EJ’s big hand as Nate cried out like he’d been on the edge for days. He spilled onto his stomach, over EJ’s hand, and felt EJ’s forehead press to his own, their breaths coming in close.

Once he had caught his breath, Nate asked, “What do you want? What can I do?”

EJ didn’t have words yet, trying to catch his breath after Nate had probably shredded his shoulders. Nate watched his face, the shadows of his cheekbones and his deep set eyes, the strands of hair falling in his face, that golden glow even more pronounced since he had broken a sweat grinding against Nate. Nate cupped a hand on EJ’s face and leaned up to kiss him, something slow that Nate hoped told him: _take your time, this is so good, this is so good for me_.

As they kissed, Nate felt EJ’s fingers on him, two fingers swiping through the mess on Nate’s stomach and then moving towards his ass. Nate hummed some agreement and then EJ’s fingers were working inside him, thick and long fingers that knew how to make Nate moan even when he didn’t think he had it in him to come again. It didn’t matter to Nate, who tried to watch EJ bring himself off while also fingering Nate. As he got close, EJ slipped a third finger into Nate and leaned up again, kissing Nate hard as he came over Nate’s stomach and chest.

Nate pulled EJ in, arranging them on EJ’s bed so they were lying down and holding each other. EJ groaned something, but he wrapped his arms around Nate anyway and hid his face against Nate’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I know,” Nate said softly as he pat EJ’s hair, golden and silky in the light of the bedroom.

“I said,” EJ said, moving his mouth from Nate's skin. “We’re gonna shower.”

“Sure. Any minute now.”

“I’m serious.”

“Seriously fucked out.”

EJ groaned again and pulled Nate closer. He tangled their legs together and Nate sighed, happy to be trapped in EJ’s limbs and mess.

“Okay, get up, let’s go.”

“No, come on, you just got me cozy! I just—your leg! It was there!”

EJ pried himself out of Nate’s arms and dragged Nate up to his feet. “Quick shower, come on, you’ll feel better.”

“Three points feels _pretty_ great. Your fingers felt _pretty_ great.”

Nate whined again, then finally let EJ pull him to his feet and lead him to the bathroom.

Tyson had told him enough immensely sad stories of his one night stands for Nate to appreciate that EJ was a great guy to exclusively hook up with and maybe even date, if that's what they had been doing. He was a great friend. He loved Nate’s dog. He was amazing at hockey. He didn’t pretend they didn’t know each other in public. He didn’t kick Nate out of bed when they were done.

He didn’t kick Nate out of bed at all, actually. Once they had showered and were back in bed, Nate curled up behind EJ and wrapped his arm firmly around EJ’s chest. When they were settled, Nate pressed his cheek to EJ’s shoulder and closed his eyes. EJ gave off heat like he was made for it, but the house cooled down at night so Nate didn’t mind.

“Go to sleep.” EJ punctuated this by kicking Nate’s shin. “Unless you can’t handle being the big spoon.”

“I’ll handle you.”

“Maybe in the morning.”

Nate shut his eyes and settled in closer. He wanted to stay awake a little longer and talk to EJ, ask him things, listen to his voice resound in his chest and reverberate into Nate’s, but Nate was already falling asleep. It was okay, Nate thought. He had EJ. They had time.

*

Nate woke up early, took care of himself and took Cox out for a quick walk, then wandered back to bed. EJ was sprawling, like he did the _instant_ Nate got out of bed or gave up an inch of his side. Nate made space for himself in the mess of limbs, then laid down with his cheek on EJ’s stomach. His heartbeat was slow and almost distant, all of it relaxing enough for Nate to fall back asleep.

Almost. EJ’s hand was in his hair, trapping little sections between his fingers before he let go. Nate stared ahead, out the sliver of window that let in a little of the early morning light, the trees in EJ’s yard a filter for it all.

“What are the chances this is a mistake?”

EJ froze. “What?”

“I mean—no, not this—I mean like. Getting drafted here. Making it to the playoffs by the skin of our teeth. Actually believing we have a chance. What are the chances that it’s a mistake?”

“There’s no such thing as dumb questions but that’s a shitty thought, Nathan. You don’t wanna be an Av anymore?”

“Of course I do.” Nate sighed. “You just ever wonder, though?”

“I mean, _I did_. And then the Blues traded me here and I haven’t looked back.”

“I’m not saying it right.”

“You’re not saying anything right.”

“I just mean—”

“Get up here.”

Nate hesitated, but he moved around anyway, lying on his side and facing EJ. Looking right into his face and his eyes was always way too intense, but it felt even more so now.

“What’s up?” EJ asked.

“You won’t laugh at me?”

“Listen, dipshit, if we can’t laugh at each other, what are we even doing here?”

Nate must have still looked… whatever. Nervous. Sad. Exposed. Lost. Maybe all of them at once. EJ waited, though, and looked so earnest, like he did when the cameras and reporters and PR disappeared, or when kids wrote him nice letters about how he was their favorite player, or now when Nate kinda needed that earnestness, needed him.

“I get too caught up in my head sometimes,” Nate finally said. “I don’t know how… like, it’ll even come into my head while I’m playing. Everything’s clicking and working perfectly and I can see every shot three moves before I take it, but then there’s that doubt, right? That’s like, _you’re not gonna make that, this streak can’t last_. How do you get away from that?”

EJ looked at him, thoughtful and a little sad. “I fuckin’ don’t, man,” EJ said. “No one does. You tell that thought to shut up and you take the shot. I think it’s like that for everyone. You’re like, _constantly_ telling some part of yourself to shut the fuck up so you can live.”

“What if it’s right, though?”

“Oh, okay, you have a point. Listen to that shitty voice and don’t become Nathan MacKinnon.”

EJ shifted on his side more, like it was important he fold his arm at the correct angle and arrange his legs into a comfortable position because he was settling in to give him A Talk.

“It’s because you’re 23 and you’re seeing just how amazing you can be if everything goes right, if you eat all your vegetables and do all your workouts and nothing bad ever happens to you. Problem is, you’re smart enough to know that no one’s _that_ lucky and you don’t know what’s waiting for you—like, for example, if a golf cart wrecks your knee for an entire year. Doesn’t mean you don’t try. If you wanna get all Gabe about it, there's a two percent chance you get out of your twenties unscathed and a total hockey legend. Those sound like good odds to me.”

Nate nodded, but he buried himself a little deeper into the pillows and pulled the sheet closer around himself. EJ sighed and wrapped an arm around him, too.

“Is this why you’ve been shitty all week?”

“I haven’t been shitty.”

“A little shitty. Just a little. Like, two percent shitty?” Nate laughed and EJ pulled him closer. “Anyway, spoiler, Tys told me what your Hall of Famer bestie said to your face, so I’ve had all those days you didn’t tell me to think about it. Or that one day. I don’t know how time works.”

“Goddammit, Tyson.”

“I like when you tell me stuff,” EJ said. “And you can benefit from the wisdom of all my broken bones and shit.”

All Nate felt like doing was nodding. Nate’s closest friends were the ones who understood that sometimes he had to retreat from words for a while and just lean on them without saying much at all.

“I think about telling the guys about us sometimes,” Nate said, suddenly, when the words came back. “But I don’t want them to see us as Gabe and Tyson 2.0, you know?”

“Oh fucking _please_. I’ve seen the two of them spend fifteen minutes of the only life they have on this earth argueflirting about which frozen pizza they should buy. Not even which one is the best, just which one they should buy _that day_. I don’t have time for that shit.”

“They each have valid points.” Nate felt EJ tug at his hair and he leaned in to nip at EJ’s collarbone in retaliation.

“I like what we have,” EJ said. “It’s not a secret if everyone's too dumb to figure it out.”

Nate let EJ stroke his hair some more. This was why he couldn’t take his pre-game naps at EJ’s either—they would either have to have the awkward _before a game yeah or nah?_ talk, or Nate would fall asleep so soundly that waking up would ruin his night.

“It’s just hockey. It’s just dating,” EJ said. “We’ll be okay.”

“Hold up, who said we were dating?”

“That’s a good point,” EJ said as he sat up, grabbed his pillow, and swiftly brought it down on Nate’s face. “I said it, dick! We’re dating! It’s been months! I got you an ice cream cake that said SIX MONTHS, and you sprinkled your disgusting protein powder on it as a joke and it _ruined_ the fucking cake! Shut up!”

EJ threw the pillow aside and Nate burst out laughing when he could breathe again. “Oh man, your _face_ ,” Nate cackled.

“Yeah, see if I ever let you sit on this face again.” EJ climbed out of bed and left for the bathroom, leaving Nate to catch his breath and watch him go.

**Author's Note:**

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